Lost Along the Way
by J. Riley
Summary: One moment, they're beneath the Roman Bridge, together. It seems the next moment, Tristan is dying. My second attempt at a Tristan Isolde fic. Tristan/Isolde pairing. Adult content though I think I toned it down from what I usually write . Review, please! :-


"_Love is made by God. Ignore it and you suffer as you cannot imagine." _

The words Isolde had spoken earlier still rang through Tristan's head. He was not ignoring love; Isolde had twisted his heart in her nimble fingers and was holding it tightly. He wished he could ignore it; his loyalty to Marke had never been tested this harshly before, but Isolde was something else entirely. She was like nothing Tristan had ever encountered before, and he was absolutely captivated by her.

If only she had not lied to him; if only she had been honest with her name! Tristan did not understand why she had to lie to him; she was so honest with her feelings and emotions and her words… So, why be any different about her name? Surely it was not that big of a deal; surely she had trusted him enough after they had made love to inform him that her name was not Bragnae; but instead, Isolde.

Tristan wished he could curse the day he met her. He wished that he had never woken up on the shore of Ireland. He wished Isolde had never found him; he wished she had not been so kind. If only she could have left him there to wither away and die, as he should have. They would not be in this mess if she had…

But instead, the two were hopelessly in love with each other; a bond so great, so pure, that even his loyalty for his Lord Marke could not bring him to end the relationship. As hard as he tried, he could not bring himself to tell her, "No, we must stop this."

As his thoughts raced – the betrayal he and Isolde were bestowing upon Marke, Isolde's lies, his own disloyalty – he became so deeply entangled in these thoughts that he barely heard the delicate footsteps of Isolde as she came walking briskly to the Roman Bridge. The moonlight was to his back, causing his entire figure to be dark to Isolde's eyes, and she hesitated slightly for a moment before she recognized the curls of Tristan's hair.

"Tristan," she whispered, walking closer toward him. He could see the smile on her face, and wondered how she could do it; how could she smile knowing that she was breaking one man's heart and causing a war within another? None of it made sense to him, but as Isolde's smaller form came closer to him, his own heart began to swell, his love for her pushing out any negative emotions.

"Isolde," he whispered back, his deep voice rumbling out of his chest. The blonde woman paused for a moment, the confident smile fading to be replaced by a much shyer smile. She was nervous – as was Tristan – and surely worried that they would be caught. Would the guards not be searching the forest for any intruders? Tristan did not know, but he was sure that Marke would not order such a thing without consulting him first.

Isolde stood awkwardly before Tristan, her eyes searching his, as though she was aware of his thoughts. "I'm here," she finally whispered, "just as I told you earlier."

Tristan watched her, his brown eyes gazing down at her delicate face. "I believed you would come," he said. "I do not take you as a _liar_."

Isolde flinched, hearing the slight bitterness in his voice. "What are you talking about?" she asked, staring at him. At the sight of her pain, Tristan's eyes softened and his bitterness dissolved, only to be replaced fully by love. He stepped forward and took her into his arms, holding her close to him tightly. He kissed her fully on the lips, passion fueling his actions. Isolde held his face in her hands, the burning passion evident in the way she pressed herself even closer to the knight, as though she were attempting to mold them together.

"Isolde," Tristan murmured once they separated; his voice slightly hoarser, "why must you do this to me?"

"What do you mean?" Isolde asked, searching his eyes.

"We should not be doing this," Tristan explained quietly, though he kept his arms around her. "You are the wife of Marke, and I am his knight. He trusts me, yet I am continuously betraying him."

"Don't," Isolde pleaded softly, "don't speak like that. I am yours; Marke may be my husband, but my heart belongs to you. You were the first to touch me – why couldn't it have stayed that way? Why couldn't you have been the _only _to touch me?"

"You said your name was Bragnae," Tristan said. "You lied to me. Had I known the woman I was winning for my king was you, I never would have tried. We should have known that this could not be; it's just as you said in Ireland. You are Irish. I am British. Our countries are feuding. This cannot be."

"That is not true," Isolde argued, though Tristan could tell just how desperate she was. "This _can _be. If we fight hard enough, we _can _be together. I know we can. We just have to try hard enough."

Tristan was quiet for a moment. "Isolde," he said, "you know as well as I do that you are Marke's; you are no longer mine. I have no claim over you. I may have been the first to touch you, but I obviously will not be the last. I no longer have any _right _to touch you. I am betraying the man who saved me as a child." He paused for a second. "Has he told you the story of his hand?"

"No," Isolde said, "he only told me that I should not be frightened, and that he was a 'whole man'."

Tristan's face turned stony as he began to explain: "When I was just a boy, my father was good friends with Marke. One day, the Irish attacked us at a gathering of the kings. My father and mother were killed; just as I told you in Ireland. I would have been killed, had Marke not pushed me out of the way. The warrior that attacked me cut off Marke's hand; that was price he paid for saving my life." He took a deep breath. "That is why I am so loyal to him. I thought if Marke was willing to lose his hand to save my life, I could risk my life to protect his kingdom."

Isolde was silent. She had not known the story of Marke's hand; she had just thought that he had always lived without it, that he had never had a second hand. To know that her husband had _saved _Tristan at the price of his hand… It was shocking, if she were honest with herself.

"I had no idea," she said quietly, running a hand down Tristan's armored chest. "So… he is brave?"

"Braver than any man I've ever met." Tristan's voice was soft, a deep rumble. Isolde could feel the vibrations in his chest as he spoke, through the chain mail and thick vest. She slowly trailed her eyes back up his chest, meeting his gaze. They stood like that for what felt like hours, just staring at each other, until the passion suddenly slammed into them both, and they grabbed for each other again, lips meeting and opening to allow tongues to slip together. Tristan's hands began to untie the strings on the back of Isolde's dress, loosening the material until it was loose enough for him to slip down.

He broke their kiss to begin kissing her neck and collarbone; he did not nip or bite, as he had when they were still in Ireland and had first fallen in love, as he did not wish her to return to Marke with any evidence of their encounter anywhere on her that he could see. Tristan was gentle, as he always was with Isolde, his hands soft and reassuring as he continued to push the dress off her body. He stepped away from her long enough to untie his cloak; he laid it out on the ground and then slowly laid Isolde on top of it, using the cloak as a shield against the damp earth and leaves and whatever else may have been on the ground.

He lay on top of her, gazing down at her for a moment, and then he kissed her again, so softly, so delicately, that Isolde barely even felt the pressure of his lips on hers. Isolde brought a hand up to give a jerk to Tristan's vest, signaling that she wanted it out of the way, and Tristan quickly untied the strings, tossing it over against the bricks of the Roman Bridge. Next came the thin long sleeved shirt he wore beneath the vest, which he unbuttoned quickly. Once he had removed this, he yanked the chain mail over his head, laying it down on the ground beside them; he could take the time later to pick out any leaves and dirt that may have gotten stuck.

Isolde stared up at him, admiring his features. She slowly reached a hand up and ran it across Tristan's chest, feeling the tight, hard muscles of his chest and abdomen. Tristan watched her for just a brief moment, and then his lips were upon her again, trailing down her collarbone, over her chest, down her navel. As he got closer to the spot he knew they both wanted him to be, he retreated back up her body, kissing her lips as he untied the strings of his leggings, slowly releasing the pressure that trapped his erection.

It seemed mad to Tristan; it made no sense to him how Isolde could make his body react so quickly, just with a kiss and a certain glint in her eye. Never before had he felt so strongly about anybody; he loved the beautiful, blonde, Irish princess more than he had ever loved anything before. It was mad.

Tristan brought a hand up to lightly grasp Isolde's breast, and the slender woman made to moan, but Tristan cut her off with a kiss. "Ssh," he murmured, "you cannot make too much noise. We are in the open."

Isolde nodded; she understood their need to be quiet. Getting caught in a situation such as this… There would be no easy way to explain it. They would have no way of coming up with an excuse. It was crucial that they stay in secrecy.

However, as Tristan continued to pleasure her, tenderly, Isolde was forced to fight harder to keep quiet. The pleasure was so intense, so raw, so pure, that she was first to climax, with Tristan still thrusting inside her, lost in his own passion. When he finally erupted inside her, a smile was playing out on her lips, and she held him close to her when he collapsed, completely spent and panting as he fought to control his breathing.

"Tristan," Isolde whispered after a moment, running her fingers through the knight's curly brunette hair, "I love you. You know this, correct?"

"Yes," Tristan's voice was barely above a whisper, and Isolde almost did not hear him. "I love you more than you could imagine, Isolde." He raised his head to look at her. "Do you love Marke?"

Isolde looked into Tristan's eyes, the moonlight reflecting from the wetness that had gathered. "I am fond of him," she admitted, "but I do not love him. I could never love him… My heart is yours, Tristan."

They were both quiet for a while, just lying together on Tristan's cloak, which by then had certainly become damp. Tristan finally sat up, reaching over for Isolde's dress. He handed it back to her and they both began to redress. Tristan pulled his leggings on and then crawled over to Isolde to tie the strings of her dress for her. Isolde rose to her feet and waited for Tristan to finish dressing.

The knight gave her a kiss goodbye, and Isolde walked back to the castle, while Tristan headed back to Leon's cottage. Their moment was over that night, and as they walked farther and farther away from each other, the guilt set in deeper and deeper into Tristan's heart.

* * *

Tristan is bleeding; the wound in his chest aching and burning as he slowly slips away. He stands on the drawbridge, one hand on the chains as he fights to stay upright; he can show no weakness in front of Donnchadh and his men. Marke's words are fuzzy sounding, his hearing already failing him, his head spinning. The end is drawing near for the brave knight.

His fellow knights rush past him, ready to fight to the death to return Cornwall. Tristan prepares to run with them, but instead he falls onto his back, unable to move by himself any longer. Marke is by his side in an instant, fearing the worst. Tristan can't be dead yet!

"Tristan," Marke murmurs, and when the younger man grasps his hand, a wave of relief flows through him for a moment.

"Take me out of here," Tristan says his voice weak and hoarse. "Take me to the river."

Marke hauls Tristan to his feet, eliciting a groan from the wounded man, and half-carries him down the stairs. By the time they reach the bridge, Edyth is there, sobbing. Marke is forced to haul Tristan up off the ground and carry him across the bridge. He lays him down against the side of the bridge and sits beside him, staring at the dying man. Tristan has been brave; Tristan has been loyal. Marke is beginning to regret the animosity he showed Tristan earlier. He wishes he could apologize. It is too late, however; and he knows Tristan will not have it anyway.

Kurseval is suddenly there at the end of the bridge, and when Marke looks up he sees that Isolde is with him, her eyes filling with tears. Marke is silent for a moment, thinking, and then he nods.

"Bring her," he says. Kurseval obeys, bringing Isolde closer, and Leon is running across the bridge after them. Isolde begins to sob as she is finally given a clearer look at Tristan, whimpering. She cannot believe it; Tristan is actually dying.

"Marke, you must come," Leon says, panting. "The battle needs you. We'll lose everything."

Tristan opens his eyes and the king and his most trusted knight look at each other. "I must heed their call," Marke says reluctantly, and Tristan can see that he does not want to leave. "I am the king."

"We've driven them back as hard as we can, but they're hell on the south road," Leon mumbles as he and Marke quickly walk away. Kurseval leans down and places a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

"Goodbye, my friend," the larger man mumbles, before he, too, walks away to return to the battle. Edyth slowly follows him, leaving the two lovers alone. Isolde drops to her knees, sobbing, disbelief evident in the way she's shaking her head.

She whimpers. "Know that I love you, Tristan," she says. "Wherever you go, whatever you see, I will always be with you."

Tristan is staring at her as he hoarsely says: "You were right. I don't know if life is… greater than death…" He pauses to take a breath. "But love was more than either." He lets out one last strangled sound, and then his entire body fully relaxes, his eyes closing. Isolde shakes her head, the tears streaming even more as she lets out a loud sob, leaning down to kiss Tristan one last time, only to throw her head back to let out a shout. She does not know that Tristan's last thought was of Ireland, that small shack where Isolde had nursed him back to health. That small shack where they had first made love.

"_For all time they will say it was our love, brought down a kingdom. Remember us." _

For once in his life, Tristan had been wrong. Isolde promises herself that she will never forget them; never forget the moments they shared, the raw passion they felt. She will never forget the only man she will ever love.

* * *

_**A/n: **__So… I decided to give the _Tristan + Isolde _archive another try. My first attempt… sucked. I'll admit it. Hopefully this one is better? Review, please! Point out any mistakes, or any ways that I can improve! :-) _


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